Cocks, Eggs, Hunting and Bendovers: From Reading to Writing

Following my relentless drone on why I read recently, an apple dampling of a  friend responded as follows:

For me ... reading is not a culture nor a value ... it's innate. And if a book or article is good ... it can change my day. Say Paulo Coelho, that man is one of my finest authors yet.
I loooove your article. You're a writer no doubt ... but do me a favour ... write one article that is simple.. both in language and expression ... the kind of article that I can give a teenager to read...

This triggered some thought train in me, and I went back to the first time I EVER saw a computer. Think back to that time. How you thought it was an alien contraption designed by the Western Civilization to prove just that. That they were civilized, and by extension, you were not. Well, that’s how I would see it now.

Around the time I first saw a computer, my family owned several thoroughbred cockerel steeds – and an equal number of hens to boot J.  End result? Farm-fresh egg gathering duty for you-know-who, being as I was the first born. It may sound easy, but trust me, when your only contact with animals at a young age of 12 involved the manic school teachers who thoroughly bred your buttocks’ skin into thick hide, facing psycho chicks with their sharp beaks  was an altogether not too funny affair.

So picture me with a big plastic bowl in my hands, fishing for eggs in a brood that

1)      stunk as hell

2)     had enough activity to rival Westlands on Bendover Thursday; and most frightening of all

3)     had tiny little she-devils equipped with the machinery to pluck out an eyeball – like ice cream melting off a cone – should the need arise.

Crazy Chicken

Seeing as I was basically going to steal their kiddoz, the occasion more often than not did arise. Now to add to that, I could not risk breaking an egg, for at the back of my mind ran the soundtrack from my last session with my mom’s well-engineered fingernails. An egg cost 7 bob at the time, and trust me, that’s a lot of money when you’re rearing chicken for eggs. Egg-hunting. Yes, hunting; forget that they were domestic fowl coz there was nothing domestic about their violence; nor that they were in my own back yard.

It was to be an experience I came to learn a critical aspect in putting my options on a scale. You see those little oblongs brought with them awe – the whole hen or chicken first argument – fear and care in equal measure, a critical mix that was similarly experienced when I first saw a computer back in 1999, on exhibit at the National Show. Forget 2000 when I actually got to lay my hands on one, coz that was tantamount to an emotion I cannot share today, having decided to keep this post strictly PG Toddler.

When that eventuality came, as with egg-rearing, I was given a set of step-to-step instructions not limited to 

a)     DO NOT eat in the Comp lab (It was sacred like that, drink spills and all being the antichrist to the holy gadget) 

b)     DO NOT move or disconnect anything (You are not holy enough to touch anything but the mouse and keyboard, so deal with it) 

c)      DO NOT…and so on

I could tell you what you should and should not do when dealing with chicken, but seeing as I’ve digressed enough as it is, and you’re probably wondering ‘Where the hell does this bring us to reading or writing?’, I’ll get right down to it. Right after I add that you’re beyond help if you still have a phobia for chicks.

Bendover Thursday

You see, when you read, it’s a bit like you’re throwing yourself into the world of a kid marveling at a computer’s beautiful curves and overall physique, or another faced with the idea of picking a neurotic crow’s young ones. It can be terrifying at first. You might need a dictionary sometimes, other times even that alone won’t help you get what ther writer [is trying to] communicate. But should you chose to – and am guessing you probably have by this point – it’s an experience that will exhilarate you, and soon enough train you to merge your awe with your fear, and eventually your care.

By the time you’ve read enough to earn the title ‘avid’, you begin to feel an urge to communicate your own thoughts. To find and bring out your own voice. To be the one communicating what you feel could have been said easier, funnier, louder or better by an author, but to you was not. And that, good people, is where the reader becomes the writer. That is where the awe and fear, turn into care. Care to write that which communicates to you. Care to make sure – as with many newbie writers – that your diary is not read. Care to make sure that if it is, it only makes sense to you.

And finally, care to bring out the sense, tense, grammar, drama, flow, glow, punctuation, pace fluctuation, creativity, brevity and general oomph that leads you to your next big step.

Publishing your voice. For there is no science to writing, only a science to being read.

My Next Reading Revolution post: Why I Write

iridiumInteractive Kenya – Cradle to the Brave

I started out with iridiumInteractive Kenya two months ago, as Social Media Associate, two weeks before I cleared Varsity, where I majored in Publishing and Media Studies. Having heard of iridium in mid-February through a Graduate Recruitment with Juliet, the Business Manager, and Sri, I immediately began working on a few projects here and there, specifically linking the Economic Stimulus Programme with iridiumInteractive Limited, courtesy of whom the program now has a website and the social media handles we are currently involved in raising awareness for.


It’s been quite a journey, one that’s opened up my mind to the endless opportunities I only thought existed in the minds of authors I read; in fact just before the Graduate Recruitment I’d acquired a copy of Tom L. Friedman’s ‘The World is Flat‘, and as soon as I heard what Sri had to say, I could not help but muse at the coincidences that had led me to iridium. I even imagined Sri saying,

“I picked the name [iridiumInteractive] because I wanted it to have a positive connotation of being assertive,”

reminiscence echoing words I had read only a week prior to this gathering at Kenya’s Bomb Blast Memorial Center.

The Graduate Recruitment Seminar, held on 21st February 2011

So now I find myself in an office, barely days after I did my last paper and effectively cleared my 8-4-4 (the Kenyan educational system, ironically tagged the moniker ‘8 – 4 – 4 = 0′ to signify the retardation of the system). Having been an AIESEC leader myself, the position feels a bit like running a Local Chapter, and in fact a lot of the guys interning for iridium under me are former or current AIESECers.
I find myself in the enviable position of being boss to my former boss, in terms of the AIESEC hierarchy in Kenya, but that’s a story for another day.

The Economic Stimulus program keeps us busy as we work as Social Media Marketers helping improve the Kenyan Government’s reach and accountability through iridium’s innovative ESP tool. The ability to track resource allocation in the various Kenyan constituencies via the Geographic Information System on the ESP gives citizens a lot of power and we’re proud to say that since we started our campaign on Social Media the awareness of this key Government accountability tool has increased momentously. Meanwhile, the rest of the team, including Annie and Rachel, have been working the Small and Medium Enterprises (SMEs) project, intending to raise 1,000,000 sites for SMEs by 2014.

Too much analysis = paralysis

By the feel of things, and judging by my own assessment of the market during Sales runs, I am positively confident that this is not only achievable, but surpassable! I certainly can’t wait to do the SME clip productions next month with the team from Hyderabad. It’s a good beginning, a good course, a good track we run…carpe diem to you all!

Why I Read

@French_Freddy's Reading Evolution 

When I was 7, my parents moved to Central (and - to my young mind - very poor) Kenya, from West (and - clearly - very posh) Lands, following a significant change in social status. At that young age, I gradually grew tired of the nagging. "Why won't you take me to the mall? Why can't I go see my friends? and Why don't you buy me [this] or [that]?" were replaced with an urge to find a good story to escape to. 

I read because I needed to feel, needed to live and feel alive. Because I needed to think, understand and communicate with grandeur. With that which I could have. That which I could be. Eventually, I'd find a writer who threw me the kind of grip I was prepared to catch. From John Kriamiti to Ben Carson; The River Between to Beyond the River(s) Kwai and Yei; The Da Vinci Code to The Broken Drum; Mills & Boons to Sweet Valley Twins (yes, them too, and I would TOTALLY deny it later ) ... quite simply, I. read. everything.


Today I read because it is written. Because I have learnt to love chasing after a good story. Because there are ideas trapped in writing somewhere out there; ideas altogether too good not to be read. I read to wonder why they were written. Away from the inculcations that are many a reviewer waxing philosophic about nothing. I read because like Silverstein, I hope to be that rare adult who can still think like a child. Still think anew, with no burden of opinion and wont.


I read because ignorance is grossly overrated. Because I live in an age that allows me to read anything. To read because I write, and in truth, so do you. It could be that exam for a course you wrote notes on; that mwakenya you wrote to cheat in an exam; that search term you keyed in on Google to find some info. 

I read because everything I love is written. Be it love itself, or history; be it language itself, or mystery. Be it art, music, photography, war, or even life itself. Because actors are sometimes so painfully unflattering that only my mind can construct corrections for them.

They say a picture's worth a thousand words. Give me a thousand words any day. da Vinci's word's on what he felt painting the Mona Lisa, or Monet's with the Bassin aux Nymphéas. 

Ok, maybe the Monet was a close call...

Because the written word is more mature, better meditated; because I can think, and think therefore I exist. I read to play with Zinedine Zidane; I read to rule alongside Cleopatra; I read to fight with Achilles and Alexander, think with Socrates and Bonaparte. I read to look up the Eiffel Tower, paint with Monet, compose with Mozart and write with Hugo; to revel with Keith Richards, rebel with the Maji Maji, smoke something with Bob Marley, and something else with Christopher Hitchens.  



I read, quite simply, because my sanity depends upon it. Because all things said and done, stick me in a room full of books and nothing else (ok, maybe a lifetime of free internet and some bitings), and I die a happy old man. A man in love with word. A man satisfied with his wordy relationship. A well-worded man.

RULEBOOK OF A PLAYER

by Theo McCheatskin 

I am a man of easy ‘virtue’. I am the kind of man that wants to literally bed any girl he sees walking in the street. I am that man who gives Men a bad name. Though calling me a slut in this overly sensitive world would be derogatory. How about we settle for part-time-lover… That’s just about subtle enough. 

Hi. I am Thedd. And I am a man-whore. Sorry, I meant to say ‘part-time lover.’

Urban Dictionary defines me as "a male that has several key attributes. A typically young (18-25) male who dresses in designer clothing, carries multiple cellphones, has become a master of manipulating women, and makes it his personal mission to sleep with as many different women as possible qualifies as a manwhore. He also has virtually no emotional attachment to any of his victims. The reputation of manwhore makes gaining new potential victims somewhat difficult, so most manwhores are forced to switch territories and stomping grounds frequently. However, even in familiar environments, many manwhores can continue to get laid by playing the "I'm misunderstood, or "I'm just pissed and acting out over a bad breakup" card. A true master in both deception and cunning, a manwhore is any "good girl's" worst nightmare come true."

The reason we are here today is to sow our wild oats. If you are thinking commitment, think of her ten years from now: Yes, even Wambui Otieno would look better. When the make-up can’t even salvage the accident of a face she has. And you ask yourself: How did it come to this?

Reminder:

1. You were tipsy, she was horny. 
2. You sealed the deal, like you were supposed to. 
3. Then you made a mistake, called the next day. That, you were not supposed to do. 

Years later you are walking down the aisle. You are trying to convince yourself that maybe, you will get used to how she looks like in the morning. After all, that is all marriage is about - Tolerance. I care a great deal, and that’s why I wouldn’t want you to end up caged for life in a sex-free union. Marriage leads to the death of your libido and the birth of immeasurable responsibilities. Whoever said settling down was a signature of maturity must have been one unintelligent bastard that couldn’t charisma his way up a girl’s skirt…

So just in case you wanna avoid that inevitable retrogression into the futility of your fruit, I suggest you open up your little black book and take note:

1. Never take her to your crib.

Should the worst come to the worst, she will not know anywhere else to go but back to her place. And by worst case scenarios I’m talking pregnancy and an STI that you may have contracted from Ciku (many whores I know usually go by that name, so no disrespect meant to all namesakes) and spread it to X in the heat of the moment when the rubber bursts.

2. Never introduce X to your friends.

This makes the dumping and playing easy. When you have mutual friends and you are spotted with another girl, word will get back to her. And try make up as many excuses when she’s eager to introduce you to her friends. Girls are controlled by their moods, so get her out of that mood. I don’t know, make her cranky...do something. But whatever you do, please don’t do her friends (And I don't mean this in a sexual context)!!

3. Act dumb.

This always works. When she says something intimate like

WHERE ARE WE HEADED?

Say:

WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

You know what she means alright but make her repeat herself and she will get bored at some point and switch the topic. If she keeps repeating, then ask her back:

WHERE ARE WE, TO BEGIN WITH?

Say you wouldn’t want to jump into conclusions.... Stupid will always sail you through to the next day.

4. Never perjure yourself.

Wait for the verdict. Like if you were with another girl then next day X asks suspiciously: What were you doing last night?? Don’t rush to answer, ask her the same question back and see how it goes. But never admit to anything or act like you are guilty; women are like private investigators, they usually pick up on the slightest of clues. So until she pronounces her decree, please, act cool.

5. Never explain yourself. 

Be brief. When narrating a happening, try and limit yourself to minute details. Women are beautiful liars: they can really be economical with the truth in a million ways: faking an orgasm during sex; telling you she’s only slept with six men in her life (when in actual sense she’s swiped so many ‘cards’ that even an Equity Bank ATM machine has nothing on her); the yellow kid who’s a midget is yours (when you are darker than night and taller than a Sud)...

Men on the other hand forget the lie as soon as it leaves the mouth; tripping over your fibs is only too easy. Therefore it is important that you give minimal tit tidbits that you can easily track back to.

6. Don’t do sleepovers.

Girls get quite comfortable once you let her spend at your place. Once you’ve let her sleep in on the first night, she won’t be sure how to act. Second time: maybe it was a rebound. Third time: oh boy, you just gave her the keys to your place. I forgot my bra; I forgot my panties; oh, my toothbrush etc…

Fact: Women never forget. In reality, the same manner a dog pisses around to mark its territory; X is strategically laying down her tracks and sinking her claws deeper into you.

7. Wear rubbers all the time.

X says she’s allergic to rubber, I say I’m allergic to babies. No matter how much she claims to be faithful or into you thou shall not proceed into her in-zone with night goggles off. It’s a jungle in there, with militant commandos such as Syphilis and Gonorrhea looming in the shadows camouflaged and all. And there are some psycho chics (Yes, I presume you thought the era of the baby-trap was long gone) Reality check: It’s not, some crazy mannerless senseless hopeless women still pop out these creatures to lay claim to your future earnings (Women have a knack for telling who’ll make it to a somebody in the future, like they are fortune-tellers of some sorts)

8. Jealousy is a vice.

Pay no mind to whatever she does in a bid to make you lay claim to her. I don’t know what it is with women and wanting to be treated like @$$-ets. She’s getting cozy with some guy at the bar, or on the dance floor and keeps glancing in your direction, hoping, waiting. DO NOT make a move or cast a glance in her direction. If nothing happens...she’ll subconsciously write you off in her mind as a lost cause, or a bad debt in case you tapped that. Women don’t like undecided 50/50 men. They like their men decisive on what they want; by not being decisive about wanting her to just yourself, she’ll figure that you just aren’t that into her and her “settling” antennae will be switched off to your waves.

9. Shallow. 

Never engage in intellectual conversation or show any signs of being a big thinker. Be the average blonde bloke who talks about the most inconsequential of things e.g. the clubs, matatus...anything nonsensical. (Note: This is after you’ve had her and not before. On the first instance acting this way could repulse her.) The only depth you are allowed to delve into deeply, is hers.


10. Bang her as soon as you can. 

Dragging a one-nighter could be detrimental and catchy-feely, on her part that is. The first night is the only ideal. If it doesn’t work out on the first, try lock it down on date number two. If this goes beyond a week, count your losses and move on to the next one.

+254: Breaking The Code.

Open letter 1: To Kenyan

Esteemed Kenyan. Allow me to tell you that you are impossible. Yes. All 43 or so of you. All 210 of you. And more so, all 93 of you. No matter where you look, there's an example of a Kenyan playing damn. All I need do is buy some popcorn, put the bucket in my lap, sit back and relax...and just like that, with no need for invitation, mission or permission, you'll pop out a bright idea and allow me to watch you go down in flames with it. Figuratively speaking. Or not.

Many of us would rather sell ourselves to other countries than deal with our own

If you ask the politician, he'll have a view on how everyone but himself is the problem. Seat the regular citizen down and he'll write you an entire script on how the politicos are the problem, and how what lies between him and the regular citizen is even crazier. It could be the jav driver who hikes the fares as soon as a drop of rain hits him, or when Osama kicks the seabed; it could be the Mobile Service Provider who 'clogs up the airwaves' every time they wanna halla at their Sugar Mamma, Mpango wa Kando or Chips Funga; it could even be the Institution of Higher Learning whose capacity to institute any learning -- let alone the higher kind -- you deem incredibly suspect.

Today, however, I take a split second off what was my paying job to moot you a question. Can we really all be the problem? To answer that, let me be Kenyan.

Hello; my name is Kenyan, and I am a loose canon. A troubled soul on a quest. Yet I am trapped; trapped because I have refused to free myself from four little walls, a ceiling and a floor with no door. I have refused to think beyond these walls, out of this fucking box. I am Adrian Monk meets Gregory House MD, completing my capacity to feel with a refusal to feel it. I am anathema to me either way. You would loose your canon too, because you are me. You are Kenyan.

 

If This Country Burns, We Burn With IT!

You hate politicians. You love your country. Perhaps you could hate the system, yet still love the country that runs it. I'm curious as to which is stronger. Can your hatred for the status quo spur you to be the water that calms the fiery storm we find ourselves in every so often? Or are you so 'determined' that you prefer to take matters into your hands and be the kindling that stokes it further?

You could be the teenager who claims that it's never that serious. A claim that comes off the deadening of your affect to all things yours; all things Kenyan. For how else can you be made to see that it actually is serious without your father or mother - figuratively or otherwise - being more than just a spectator in this arcade game we call a Kenyan existence? After all, Super Mario was never that serious either; we seem to think that we can simply press restart once we mess up and the screen screams Game Over.

Everyone has an opinion, and it is no coincidence that you, Kenyan, are thought a reckless teenager today. See Swaggalicious or Google "Teenage Road Carnage in Kenya" for further details. That you are thought a stupid politician. Think Sonko, Bad Boy of the 10th Parliament; UK with his Tuko Pamoja BS; Mututho with the crazy corruption-enabling law. That you are a greedy lot ready to sit around and do nothing while Kenya cries - insert many Civil Servants, Corporate, Media, NGOs in Kibera, Kanjow...name it.

The question should not be 'Who is to blame?', much as it should be how we can change.

(To be continued)